


the music's played by the madman

by ambitioncutsusdown



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Music, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Slow Build, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 17:54:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2119266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambitioncutsusdown/pseuds/ambitioncutsusdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minho rolls his eyes, ready to turn around and leave again, and that’s when he notices a phone number scribbled on the left corner of the mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the music's played by the madman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shuckfaceparadise (wolves_and_wizards)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shuckfaceparadise+%28wolves_and_wizards%29), [shuckfaceparadise (isaacfignewton)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaacfignewton/gifts).



> written for [ember's](http://shuckfaceparadise.tumblr.com/) birthday!!!  
> she wanted to see more minpan and, well, how could i say no to that???  
> i hope you like it, sweetheart 
> 
> \-- 
> 
> okay writing this was?? a journey of it's own let me tell u man. it was hard and a struggle but also wonderful and exciting and i never thought i'd get through it but i did!! almost 7k of minho x frypan and i'm exhausted now but it was worth it i guess
> 
> unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine

Bad break-ups always leave Minho a bit reckless.

Not as in, breaking the law or jumping off high buildings. No, just the innocent kind of reckless. Like staying up all night to watch astro-TV or getting drunk with Newt or eating too many olives or going out three times a week to dance until his feet hurt and all colors start to blur together and he can’t hear anything except for music and can’t feel anything but the sweat clinging to his skin and his heart is beating in tune with the beat, like it’s driving him forward and keeping him alive.

Bad break-ups feel a little bit like the world ending and music feels a little bit like the world rebuilding itself around him – and maybe if he was any other person, he’d pick up his guitar and write songs about it, but he’s not so he lets himself be consumed by cheap beer and secondhand smoking and a beat so loud it punches the breath out of his lungs.

The first night out, he was with Thomas, and the second night Harriet and Sonya took him with them. This night he’s alone, though, he doesn’t have anyone watching out for him, but he doesn’t care.

It’s only two blocks to his apartment, so he can walk. He’s done that more times than he can count. Probably could do it in his sleep.

He orders another beer and the guy behind the bar hands him a bottle; makes some offhand comment about his mouth when Minho sips it. Minho smirks at him and winks, and disappears again a second later, making his way back to the middle of the dance floor, where strange hands are touching him and someone’s grinding against him and he can stop thinking about anything that isn’t moving or dancing or following the rhythm of the music, let his mind cloud over.

It’s one of the easiest and best feelings in the world, and right now, it’s exactly the right kind of medicine he needs.

His bottle gets emptied, and then another one, and when he makes out with some random girl, someone else pushing another bottle into his hand and smacks his shoulder, tells him “good job, man, you totally have her spread out for you. One more drink and she’s going home with you.”

Minho rolls his eyes at them and mumbles that first of all getting a girl drunk to trick her into following you home is gross, and second of all even if he’d want that, he wouldn’t need to get anyone drunk in order to have them. He spits in the guy’s face, though he keeps the drink.

Guy’s paid for it. Might as well have it.

He empties it on his way to the bathroom and puts it on one of the sinks when he enters it. The bathroom mirror is dirty – he didn’t expect anything else – and he can barely see his reflection in the dim light and through the smoke that’s all around him. Smoking’s technically not allowed in here, but as usual, no one cares about that.

Just like it says you’re not allowed to have sex in here, but Minho can still hear someone moan, the noise coming from the last cubicle on his right. He snorts and shakes his head, leaning down so he can splash some water in his face.

He wipes his cheeks clean with the back of his hand. It doesn’t help much, but at least he feels less sweaty and a little more refreshed.

The moaning’s turned into low groaning. Minho rolls his eyes, ready to turn around and leave again, and that’s when he notices a phone number scribbled on the left corner of the mirror.

It’s kind of surprising he even sees it, because the handwriting is small and messy, and it’s surrounded by things as “JOHN + ERICA 4EVER” and “SUCK MY DICK TOM”. But there it is, all ten digits for a phone number. No name, no message. Nothing.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been there – maybe someone wrote it there two years ago. Maybe it’s a fake number. He doesn’t know anything about it, but Minho feels a weird rush of adrenaline when he takes out his phone and saves it, smirking down at his phone screen.

Finding a random phone numbers gives him the same feeling as getting drunk and dancing his ass off.

That’s interesting, he thinks, and he also knows what Newt would say when he tells him about the number. Can hear it as clearly as he can hear the music – “do you know how reckless that is, Minho? What if it’s a serial killer?”

It’s exactly the kind of reckless Minho likes. Lives for.

It’s what he needs.

**

The next morning he wakes up to the smell of fresh coffee and Alby banging on his bedroom door.

“It’s almost noon, if you don’t come out of there right now, I’m gonna break the lock, Minho.”

Minho mumbles something that’s more like a cluster of syllables instead of actual words, but he does drag himself out of bed and tugs on the first shirt he finds.

It’s the one he wore last night and it smells like beer and sweat.

Alby’s not very impressed with him when he opens the door.

“What’re you doing here?” Minho asks through a yawn. He brushes his fingers through his hair in an attempt to fix it. It feels gross and sticky. His whole body feels gross and sticky to be honest, but he’s going to ignore that and certainly not mention it to Alby, for he’d just tell him he brought it on himself.

He’d be right about that, of course, and that’s the mean reason he’s not going to mention it. Alby’s insufferable when he knows his right.

“I stayed over with Newt,” he replies, and Minho nods. Of course.

“Thought you guys were taking it slow.”

“We are. And since when are you so good at relationship advice, mister _my-boyfriend-dumped-me-last-week_.”

“So I know how _not_ to do it.”

Alby laughs and shakes his head. “You go take a shower. You stink. If you are hungry, we went grocery shopping already.”

Minho nods and yawns again, heading for the bathroom as soon as Alby’s left.

**

It takes a while until he feels clean enough, but eventually he turns off the shower and gets out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Combing through his hair goes easier this time, and when he’s dry, he returns to his bedroom and gets dressed.

It’s only when he remembers he needs to recharge his phone, that he takes a look at him. There’s a text message from Newt (“if you wake up; alby and me are buying food. don’t eat the yoghurt on the sink, it went bad three months ago”) and one from… an unknown number.

Frowning, Minho opens it, and he only gets more confused when the words “who are you” appear on his screen.

Someone he doesn’t know asks him who he is?

He checks the rest of the conversation and then it comes back to him – the number on the mirror and how he saved it and apparently sent a text already. He prays it’s not something terribly embarrassing.

**From: minho  
u r not a sex line, are u? **

So much for not being embarrassing.

**

He waits a few hours before texting back (he needs those hours to stop feeling like world’s biggest loser over them).

Also to think about what _exactly_ he’s going to say.

“Hello, I saw your number on the mirror of some dirty bathroom and I wondered if you were a phone sex worker.”

He can’t exactly do that.

**From: minho**   
**sorry for that**   
**i’m minho**   
**you wrote your number on the mirror in the Glade? the club next to that bank?**   
**I found it there**

He doesn’t get anything back for an hour, and in that time he almost managed to distract himself enough not to think about it anymore.

**From: unknown**   
**oh yea**   
**I did that like two weeks ago**   
**I’d forgotten about it to be honest**   
**so… minho? Cool**   
**I’m frypan**

Minho only hesitates a second before updating the number, adding in Frypan’s name.

Not that he’s ever going to use it again.

**

He texts Frypan again two days later because he’s bored out of his mind and he can’t leave his room because Newt and Alby are making out on the couch and by the sounds of it Alby’s either the most skilled kisser ever, or he has his hand down Newt’s pants.

He’d rather not face that.

So he’s stuck in his room with nothing but music sheets and empty coffee cups and a few books and he’s _bored_ and he’s wondering if he should text Thomas or Brenda, but then he scrolls past Frypan’s name and he figures – what the hell.

It’s just a simple **hello** but it’ll do. If Frypan wants to talk, he’ll reply, and if he doesn’t want to talk, well… then Minho will beg Thomas to come and save him. Maybe he can spend the night as his place, then he doesn’t have to listen to Newt and Alby go at it all night.

Taking it slow, they call that.

Minho snorts and shakes his head, perking up when his phone buzzes.

**From: frypan**   
**hi, minho**   
**didn’t think I’d hear from you again**   
**how are you**

Minho wants to say that of course he would, but thing is, if he hadn’t been this bored he probably wouldn’t have texted Frypan.

**From: minho**   
**bored**   
**forced to listen to my roommate and his boyfriend suck each other’s face**   
**you?**

He flips through his music sheets again while waiting for a reply. Most of them are covers, with the exception of maybe five songs, and all of them are crumpled and folded and some of them have stains of them.

He probably should take better care of them, but Minho likes to think this shows that at least they’re being used and not left to collect dust.

**From: frypan**   
**sounds fun**   
**get out there?**   
**I’m cool though**

Biting back a smile, Minho shakes his head.

**From: minho**   
**can’t**   
**I’d have to walk past them**   
**and I’m pretty sure they’re not wearing clothes anymore**

**From: frypan  
window?**

**From: minho  
I live on the 4 th floor **

It stays quiet for a while, long enough for Minho to drop his phone again and look at the papers in front of him again. He orders them as good as he can and puts them aside.

There used to be a time he could sit with Newt and Alby as friends instead of _this_. When all of their friends would hang out together and he’d bring his guitar and Aris would too and Thomas would get that god-awful harmonica of his and Minho would start singing and soon Teresa and Sonya would join him, and they’d do that until deep in the night.

They stopped doing that when everyone got older and left for work, college, family, just because they could. When everyone started dating and hanging out with boyfriends and girlfriends – would bring boyfriends and girlfriends to their joined hanging out and those boyfriends and girlfriends never left. That’s how they got Brenda and Gally (both dated Thomas – both broke up with Thomas) and Harriet (still dating Sonya. Minho didn’t expect her to last, but here they are).

Now there are so many people Minho can’t really keep up with it anymore, but they don’t hang out anymore like they used to.

The sound of phone snaps him out of his musings.

**From: frypan**   
**ladders, my friend**   
**or just close your eyes when you walk past**

Minho smiles and sighs.

**From: minho  
I think I’m stuck either way**

**

To be honest, he doesn’t remember exactly how he went from texting Frypan once every four days to receiving good morning and goodnight texts from him every day, but he can’t say he minds.

It’s nice, knowing someone took the time to say hello to you first thing in the morning. And reading them makes him smile every time.

All he knows about Frypan is that he’s a history student and a year older than Minho, that he lives in an apparently shitty dorm, and his favorite band is some underground stuff Minho has never heard off – but apparently they play around here a lot, because in the three weeks Minho’s known him, he’s seen them live two times.

The second time Minho was tempted to show up as well, just so he could see Frypan, even though he has no idea what he looks like or even who he is. All he has is a name and a few facts. Not enough to be able to find him, or even recognize him if he’d walk past him on the street.

He wants to change that, thinks it’d be cool to hang out with him for real instead of just text, but on the other hand he also likes this. How the Frypan he’s texting is just _his_. Besides, this guy likes to talk to him.

What if that’ll change if they ever meet?

It’d suck, and Minho doesn’t want that to happen, so he keeps his ideas about meeting stored away.

Instead he works on convincing Alby and Newt to not get it on in the kitchen (“I’m supposed to fucking eat in here, Newt!”) and getting Thomas though his most recent break-up by taking him out and giving him enough beer to take the edge off of it, and then forcing him to drink water the rest of the evening.

He himself stays sober so he can safely get Thomas home and then find his way to his apartment.

He also works on finding back all his original songs and figuring out which ones of them can be saved and which ones are ruined beyond repair.

The price you pay for being sloppy, he guesses. He doesn’t really care – most of them aren’t really good anyway. He’s not much of a singer-songwriter. The singer part, yes, and the guitar playing as well. It’s just the writing that bothers him.

Aris used to be really good at it.

Maybe Minho should stop by him again some day. It’s been months since the last time he did; ever since Aris became busy writing his final paper and Minho got a job (and got fired from it two months later). Point is, he should stop by. Maybe they could hang out again.

All in all, it’s not very exciting, and it’s frustrating, and Minho breaks the pattern by going out again and dancing until the sun comes up, pressing in between a girl and her boyfriend. He hands are gripping his hips and he can feel the guy breathing into his hair.

When the last song stops and the club’s about to close, Minho makes sure to get away from them before they can ask him to come with them – which he knows they will. He’s been there before.

And he has gone with it before.

But today he’s not feeling like it, instead he just wants to get back to his room and fall in bed and cling to that feeling of adrenaline, that feeling of neverending and of feeling alive.

Newt’s still asleep when he gets home, which is good – Minho doesn’t feel like talking.

The only exception being Frypan, he thinks, as his phone beeps and he sees the familiar name on the screen.

**From; frypan  
goodmorning**

Minho laughs and replies to him.

**From: minho**   
**goodnight u mean**   
**I just got home**

**From: frypan**   
**you went out?**   
**until now?**

He’s stripped off his clothes in the time it takes Frypan to reply to him, and slides in bed while reading his messages.

**From: minho**   
**yes**   
**it was good**   
**I’m gonna sleep now**

He’s already half asleep when Frypan’s text comes in.

**From: frypan**   
**alright alright**   
**dream of me**

Minho snorts, but can’t stop smiling.

**

It’s not until Newt sits him down and asks him if he’s seeing someone, that Minho realizes how much he’s been texting Frypan.

They talk about anything – sports and books and history and music and the weather and childhood memories and Frypan’s dorm and Minho’s apartment and their friends and their dreams and anything at all. Most of their time is spent texting; except for when they’re asleep or when Frypan is studying or in class. Minho uses those moments to hang out with his friends and give another shot at writing stuff that isn’t either sappy love songs or dramatic teenage angst lyrics.

He doesn’t succeed, but he’s trying.

He’s also talked to Aris, and he said he missed hanging out as well. So they’re going to do something about that.

All in all, Minho’s happy with it, with how things are going. They’re nice without it being so boring he wants to bang his head into a wall. It’s good, he thinks.

For a moment, he’s silent, thinking about Newt’s question.

He knows that if he and Frypan saw each other as much as they texted, he’d say they were together for sure. He also knows he likes talking to him and he feels strangely close to the guy, even though they’ve never met.

And that’s the biggest problem.

They’ve never met and Minho doesn’t know if they ever will, so he can’t say whether they’re together or not or if they ever will be together or not. It’s hard to decide if you’re into a guy you’ve never seen. He’s into his texts, though. He likes the person he’s gotten to know that way.

It’s sort of complicated, maybe.

“I’m not,” he finally says.

Newt can probably see his internal struggle with that question, but he doesn’t push it, which Minho likes. If Newt started to push, he wouldn’t know how to reply either way. The answer would still be no, he’s not seeing anyone, but Newt might find out he _wants_ to see someone.

Yeah, complicated.

**

Jamming with Aris is as good as it used to be. Aris easily follows his rhythm and picks up where he needs to, like something’s keeping both of them connected to one another and they just need to look at each other to see what they mean. They don’t have much in common – hardly anything at all besides their mutual friends – but when it comes to music they understand each other like no one else can.

Minho’s always liked that.

Aris’ voice isn’t the best, but he can write, and when he starts improvising lyrics, Minho lets him. He makes sure to write down as much as he remembers after.

Sometimes he thinks the universe is playing a trick on them – making Minho shit at writing but good at singing, and making Aris good at writing but shit at singing.

But together they make a good team, Minho knows. And from the way Aris is smiling, he can tell he knows as well.

“We should do this again some time,” he says, and Aris nods.

They go out for drinks together.

Minho texts Frypan when he’s home again and drunk out of his mind.

**From: minho  
my friend asked me I’m dating the person I text with so much**

**From: frypan  
what did you say?**

**From: minho  
no**

**From: frypan  
okay **

**

Minho reads those few text at least twenty times, trying to figure out what _okay_ means, but he doesn’t know.

It makes him uneasy, and he spends most of the next night awake, strumming his guitar.

If Newt hears, he doesn’t comment on it.

**

**From: frypan  
we do spend a lot of time texting though**

The messages wakes him up at nine o’clock, and Minho wants to hate Frypan for texting him so early when he fell asleep at six a.m., but he doesn’t have it in him.

Instead he rubs the sleep out of his eyes and sits up.

**From: minho**   
**yeah**   
**we do**   
**do you mind?**

**From: frypan**   
**no**   
**I like it**

Minho smiles down at his phone.

**From: minho**   
**me too**   
**so you don’t think we need a texting break?**

He doesn’t realize how anxious he is about Frypan’s answer until it comes in.

**From: frypan**   
**no**   
**although maybe we can**   
**stop texting**

He only has three seconds to worry, and then there’s an incoming call, and Minho nearly chokes on his own spit when he sees it’s Frypan.

“Hello?” he asks when he picks up.

“Minho?”

Frypan’s voice is deep and smooth, nothing like he expected, but he sounds _good_ and Minho finds himself smiling.

“Yeah,” he replies.

“Good to hear you.”

“Yeah.”

“Is this okay? Me calling? Not breaking any sort of… rules?”

“Yeah?”

A breathy chuckle, the sound of Frypan clearing his throat.

He’s nervous, Minho thinks, and then notices he’s nervous as well. About a phone call.

“Are you gonna say anything else?”

Now it’s Minho’s turn to laugh nervously. “Sorry. I’m just… surprised. Didn’t expect you to call. But it’s cool, totally cool.”

“Okay.”

Minho thinks he can hear Frypan’s smile through his voice. He’s never seen his smile, never even seen Frypan’s face at all, but he still likes it.

**

Texting is still their favorite form of communication, because it’s easier and goes quicker and takes less effort, but sometimes Frypan will call him. Usually once a week.

It starts out awkward and then they talk for two hours and sometimes Minho will mumble “I’m gonna fall asleep” when it gets really late, and sometimes Frypan will hang up then, but sometimes he’ll also stay on the phone until Minho’s breathing evens out and he dozes off, and then he’ll hang up and Minho will wake up with his phone pressed into his cheek and a smile on his face.

**

Aris writes lyrics.

Minho writes music.

Together they write songs.

Minho has to repeat that to himself a few times before it sinks it – before he truly understands that the papers in front of him are music sheets of the songs they’ve written together. There are ten of them, and not all of them are great, but they wrote ten songs together in less than a month and Minho feels pretty great about it.

They play four of them to their friends and everyone is positive about it – Minho knows they have to be because they’re friends, but he also knows that Thomas is totally okay with saying what’s good and what’s bad, and when he walks up to Minho and pats his back and says “those? Were super good, man, like honestly. It’s great!” Minho can’t help but feel good about it.

It’s not the top but it’s something and Minho enjoys what he’s doing. So it’s good.

He’s drunk with euphoria when he texts Frypan.

**From: minho**   
**played songs for my friends**   
**everyone’s super enthusiastic**   
**sort of wish you’d been here as well**   
**would’ve been nice**

**From: frypan**   
**me too, you know**   
**I’d love to hear your music**   
**or**   
**see you**

**From: minho  
you wanna see me?**

**From: frypan  
yeah**

He doesn’t think twice about pressing the camera app on his phone and taking a picture of himself. He’s sweating and his hair is a mess and the scar on his shoulder from when he fell off his bike when he was five is visible, but he doesn’t care. He sends it to Frypan and tucks his phone away.

**

This time, he doesn’t dance to forget, but to remember.

He wants to remember what it felt like to play his own songs to his friends, how they listened and smiled and congratulated him, how proud Aris was and how much fun they had writing those songs and showing them and letting other people in on the things they created.

He wants to remember the adrenaline in his body and how everyone moved together like one to the beat of whatever song was playing, and how he imagined it was one of _his_ songs that brought people so close together, made them feel united and part of something else, something bigger than all of them. Music can make people feel like they belong, Minho knows, and tonight he feels like he truly belongs with all of those amazing people and he never wants to be anywhere else.

He dances with Brenda and Teresa and Thomas, he dances with Gally and drags Alby off to the dance floor and grinds against Harriet until they’re both breathless from laughing. He keeps going and going until he’s out of energy, and even then he’s not ready to stop yet. He pushes himself further, giving more, taking more; taking everything he deserves and tonight it’s a lot.

Alby and Gally and Teresa and Thomas go home with them and Minho falls asleep on the floor if his bedroom and wakes up sore but happy.

**

“Where’s my phone?”

Teresa looks up, chewing a mouthful of cereal. “I don’t know,” she replies.

Minho shrugs it off at first – maybe someone else has it, or maybe it’s somewhere between the cushions on the couch. He’ll check in a minute, after he’s had a cup of coffee.

**

Three hours later, he still has no idea where his phone is and he’s starting to panic.

At first just for sole fact that _his phone is gone_ , and then because he remembers what he said to Frypan and he hasn’t heard of him ever since and he needs to know his reaction, if there is one at all. And he can’t check for a reaction if he doesn’t have his phone, so he needs it. Now.

Newt doesn’t have it, and neither does Alby, or any of the other people who slept over at their apartment. It’s not in his bed or the couch or the kitchen or the bathroom. It’s nowhere.

Minho’s only hope is that one of their other friends has it, because if he lost it at the club, there’s no way he’s ever going to get it back.

**

No one has it.

It’s truly gone.

**

He can use Gally’s old phone until he can afford to get a new one, and getting most of his contacts back doesn’t take very long. Most of them are just his friends and family anyway.

The only one that’s a struggle is Frypan, because he doesn’t remember his number and has to wait until he has time enough to stop by at the club to save it again. It’s been two days until they last text, almost three, and Minho honestly feels guilty about it and misses him. It didn’t hit him how much they truly texted until now, and he’s not even ashamed to admit he misses it.

He just hopes Frypan won’t be too angry with him.

Alby goes out with him but this time Minho isn’t there for the dancing or the music or the alcohol. He heads straight for the bathroom, to the familiar mirror, and he stops dead in his tracks when he sees it.

They’re cleaned.

Spotless, for the first time in months, probably. Minho knows these mirrors are being cleaned sometimes, of course he knows, and he vaguely remembers Newt telling him about that the last time they were here.

It didn’t seem important to him back then.

It’s sure important to him right now, because he _needed_ that phone number. He doesn’t know all of it, only the last two digits, and that’s not enough.

He can’t leave Frypan hanging like that, not after he sent him a picture, not after all their conversation. They’ve been texting for _months_ , and now he has no way to contact him, and Minho feels sick.

“I need to go home,” he tells Alby when he leaves the bathroom.

“You look pale.”

“I might throw up on the way home.”

Alby nods and drags Minho out of the club, dodging strangers and ignoring the hands reaching out for them.

Minho is silent as they walk, and as he enters his apartment. He ignores Newt and goes straight to his bedroom, where he locks the door and falls down, not knowing what to do.

**

The only person he gets out of bed for two days later is Aris, and only because they’ve planned to write more music and he needs that sort of distraction. He doesn’t care about anything else, but he can’t lose that as well. He needs those songs and the music and he needs to do it with Aris.

The guys tries to get him to talk, of course, Minho knows that as soon as something goes wrong with one of them, their friends call each other to fill them in.

No doubt everyone knows about Minho already. Maybe not exactly _what_ is wrong, but they know there’s something.

At first, he tries to avoid it, but it takes effort and it’s tiring and to be honest, Minho really wants to talk about it all. Wants to get everything out and tell someone so he doesn’t have to worry about it alone.

So he puts his guitar down and tells Aris about the number he found so many months ago and the texting and the phone calls and how much he cares about Frypan and that he wants to see him and hang out with him and see if they match and if Frypan would be okay with kissing and all that kind of stuff, and that it’s been five days since their last text and Minho can’t tell him he lost his number and he doesn’t know how to find the guy and he feels really, really bad about it.

Aris listens, doesn’t interrupt him once, and when he’s done, all he says is, “that sucks.”

Minho snorts and nods.

It certainly does.

“There might be other ways to find him, though. He’s been to that club. Ask some people if they know him.”

He sighs. “Tons of people go to that club, Aris.”

“Yeah, but not all of them are named Frypan. Come on.”

**

They can back that evening, Minho and Aris. Aris does most of the talking – asking people if they know a guy named Frypan. Asking DJs and the people behind the bar, but no one does. Minho’s not all that surprised, because why would they know the name of some random guy who may have been here two or three times. Most of them don’t even know _his_ name, and he stops by almost every week.

So he’s not surprised but still disappointed.

Part of him was hoping they’d find him, that the first person they walk up to would say “oh, Frypan, yes of course I know him. I’ll give you his number.”

Then he could just call him and explain and hopefully Frypan wouldn’t be mad at him and they could just continue what they’ve been doing so far.

But no such thing, and Minho walks home with Aris this time. He doesn’t feel like being in his own apartment.

He doesn’t really feel like sleeping either, instead he curls up under a blanket and reads Aris’ lyrics, figuring out if they can use it or not.

It’s not much but it keeps him busy and gives him a purpose, and right now that’s all he needs.

**

“Did he ever mention some of his friends?”

Minho grunts.

Yeah, Frypan did mention them sometimes. Not often. Minho remembers the name Jeff being thrown around at some point, and four or five others, but he can’t think of those right now.

“I don’t know his friends.”

Brenda’s pacing back and forth, trying to come up with a plan.

It’s been a week since The Evening and Minho feels like shit.

“But maybe we know his friends. Or our friends know his friends. You’d be surprised at how many people Jorge knows.”

“Does Jorge know people who go to the local college? Study history?”

“He studies history?”

Minho grunts again, but he’s pulled up by Brenda within seconds, and she’s grinning at him like she won the lottery. “Why didn’t you say so immediately? We can just go there and ask them to see the list of enrolled students and find him.”

“I don’t think they’re allowed to let us see those.”

“We can at least _try_ , Minho. Or ask them if they’ve heard of him. I’m tired of seeing you sulk around just because you can’t talk to this one dude.”

**

And that’s how Minho finds himself in the main building of said college, waiting to enter the office of the head of the history department – or something. Minho’s not entirely sure, but Brenda took care of it, so he trusts her.

Maybe he doesn’t trust her with much, but he thinks this is safe. Besides, she’s the only person who had an idea, and if this doesn’t work he has no idea what to do next.

Probably give up.

**

The head of the history department can’t tell them.

Again, Minho had expected that, but he’s still disappointed.

They’re not allowed to give information about his students, and even when Brenda asked if he could just tell them if he knew someone named Frypan, the man shook his head.

“I wish I could help you, but I can’t. I’ve never heard of someone with that name and I can’t give you inside information about our students.”

They’re outside again ten minutes later, and Minho hangs his head in defeat.

“This is _pointless_ , Brenda.”

“No, it’s not, come on. I know it’s not looking good but there are – we can do more things. I’m going to ask Jorge. And you’re going to tell us everything you know about this guy, every single detail. There must be something we can do!”

But Minho keep shaking his head, swallowing away the disappointment that’s taking over. It was fun. It’s over. He has to accept that.

“Forget it,” he sighs, “we’re never going to find Frypan. I’ve lost him.”

“Frypan?”

Minho snaps his head up and looks around, spotting a guy standing not too far away. He’s holding a bunch of books and there’s a bag slung over his shoulder. Probably on his way to class.

“You did say Frypan, didn’t you? What about him?”

“Do you know him?”

It’s Brenda who speaks up, eyeing the boy up and down.

He shrugs at her. “If you’re talking about the guy I think you’re talking about, then yeah.”

“Who are you?” Minho asks him.

“I’m Jeff.”

A bell rings in Minho’s head and finds himself smiling at the guy, not able to hold it back. “You’re Jeff? As in, Frypan’s friend? Really?”

Yeah…” Now he’s frowning at them, probably wondering what’s going on. “Who are _you_?”

“I’m… Minho. I’m a—”

Jeff’s laugh interrupts him. “ _You’re_ Minho? I should’ve known. You look similar to the picture. Why’re you here? Looking for Frypan?”

“You’ve seen my picture?”

A shrug of his shoulders. Jeff switches his books from one arm to the other. “Frypan showed me. Why did you stop texting?”

“I lost my phone and didn’t have his number.”

“He’s been sulking around all week,” Brenda adds, “it’s annoying. We’ve been trying to find the guy ever since.”

“Impressive,” Jeff’s grinning, “and now you’ve found him. I know someone who’ll be very happy about that.”

“Who?”

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Frypan, of course.”

**

Frypan turns out to be… tall. Really tall. With messy hair and dark skin and even darker eyes.

Minho’s happy Jeff and Brenda left for this and he can be alone with him.

He can feel Frypan’s gaze on him and shifts on his feet. “Hi,” he mumbles.

“Minho?”

A hint of surprise, but he doesn’t sound mad at him, which is good.

“Yeah. I’m… sorry. I lost my phone and I went back to the club but it wasn’t on the mirror anymore and then I asked if people knew you but no one did so we came here because I know you go here but we couldn’t get any information about students and we asked like, the head or something, and he didn’t know one either, but then Jeff heard me talk and I know you mentioned Jeff and he was like “you mean our Frypan” and I did and… here I am. I’m truly sorry.”

By the time Minho’s finished talking, he’s out of breath and he feels more than ridiculous.

“Siggy.”

“What?”

Frypan smiles at him. “My real name’s Siggy. That’s why none of the professors know me. They know that name.”

“Oh.”

Minho clears his throat again.

He really needs a drink right now.

“I thought you stopped texting because I sent you a picture.”

“You did?”

Frypan nods, glancing down. It looks like he’s embarrassed – shy, maybe. “Yeah. Thought you didn’t wanna talk anymore, maybe. That I wasn’t, like, hot enough. Or cool enough.”

“Why would you think that?”

“You looked all… hot and pretty in your picture, all sweaty from playing your own songs with your own band. I was lying in bed and wearing a star wars t-shirt in mine.”

Minho finds himself laughing. “Star wars happens to be very cool, okay?”

“Okay.”

They’re smiling at each other and Minho breathes out slowly, feels himself relax now it’s downing on him. He’s found Frypan. He’s not just found his number or someone who knows him – he’s found the guy himself. Who is standing in front of him right now, looking so pretty Minho wants to cry a bit. Maybe write a song about him. Tell Aris to write a song about him.

“And don’t ever think you’re not hot.”

It’s out before he knows it and Frypan lowers his gaze again, but he’s still smiling.

“Wanna come in?”

“I thought you had a shitty roommate?”

“He’s out now.”

Minho nods and follows Frypan inside.

**

They sit on the floor and listen to Frypan’s ITunes collection, talking and laughing and Frypan puts his phone number in Minho’s new phone; and Minho’s forced to leave when the apparently horrible roommate returns, but Frypan walks him out of the building and they look at each other as they’re standing by the door, ready to say goodbye but not ready at all.

“You can come to me, if you want to.”

“What about that guy you live with and his boyfriend?”

“They’ll deal.”

Frypan shakes his head with a smile. “Not tonight, some other time.”

He leans in and brushes a kiss to Minho’s cheek, smiles at him a last time, and goes back inside.

Minho can deal with _some other time_.

**

“We need to go clubbing together some time.”

“My finals are in three weeks. I don’t have time for clubbing.”

“Sucks.”

“Yeah.”

**

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Research for my paper?”

“And in the evening?”

“ _Still_ research for my paper?”

“We’re playing again. Aris and me. In a pub this time. Do you wanna come?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“What about your paper?”

“It can wait.”

“Maybe I can wait as well.”

Frypan laughs.

“Minho. You can’t wait for anything.”

**

There isn’t a song for Frypan on their playlist, but there are six covers and four own songs on it and everyone’s loving it and Minho knows that the last time he felt this good, he woke up without a phone.

There are worse things in the world.

At least now he won’t have to worry about not finding Frypan again.

Especially since he’s standing front row, next to Newt and Teresa, looking a little but uncomfortable about not knowing anyone but very happy at the same time, smiling at Minho and singing along to the songs he knows.

When they’re done and Minho’s asked his friends what they thought of it, he gets Frypan alone and asks him the same.

“Really good.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. You also looked really handsome on stage.”

“I did?”

Frypan rolls his eyes with a smile. “Don’t say it like you don’t know that already,” which makes Minho laugh and shrug.

“Maybe I just like hearing you say it.”

“You do?”

Minho nods.

“Why?”

“I like that you think I’m handsome.”

“I wanna kiss you.”

Biting his lip, Minho smiles up at Frypan and nods. “Please do.”

And even with that warning, Minho’s still surprised when Frypan’s lips meet his and they’re soft and nice and Minho presses closer to him in a matter of seconds, wrapping his arms around Frypan’s neck to tug him down and deepen the kiss, doing what he’s wanted to do for _so long_.

They kiss for hours, Frypan’s back against the wall and Minho leaning against him. They kiss until they’re breathless and their jaws get sore and then even longer, until their lips are bruised and their fingers are gripping each other’s hips. They kiss until Minho feels like he’s dancing and Frypan’s breathing is the same is that beat of the music and the movements of his hips are the rhythm his body had to follow. They kiss until Minho’s certain no one can ever live up to this ever again.

And then they break apart when it’s time to go home, and Minho asks Frypan to come over, and Frypan nods.

“I’d love to.”


End file.
